


Hey There, Delilah

by BritishAssistant



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Antichrist, Apocalypse, Armageddon, Bad Parenting, Child Neglect, Cooking, Demons, Gen, harpsichord, parental neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 13:54:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20816240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BritishAssistant/pseuds/BritishAssistant
Summary: The first antichrist had failed, the angels suggested, because he was too loved.So this time, Heaven and Hell decide to ensure this isn’t the case.





	Hey There, Delilah

The first antichrist had failed, the angels suggested, because he was too loved.

He had loving parents who made sure they spent most of the week and holidays together, never once missing birthdays or Christmas, always clucking with pride over him.

He had that gang who accompanied him wherever he went and provided an endless font of support and camaraderie.

He had the hellhound who was so mindlessly devoted to him it even followed him wherever it was he went after Death.

Even his village, which largely looked on him as a nuisance, were fond of him in their own sort of way as a prodigal son that provided an endless source of entertainment.

In short, he already _had_ a kingdom of devoted subjects, and saw obtaining more as too much hassle.

Therefore, the angels suggested gently, maybe this go around it would be more suitable if this— _wasn’t_— the case. To prevent undue attachment, you understand.

The demons didn’t like it. Demons don’t like much of anything, so this was understandable. But soon, after carefully vetting families (no blockbuster Americans this time— nothing that would catch the attention of THEM), a suitable pair of humans was chosen.

Mr. Lehazkin wanted to dance, but was crushed under his parents’ heels and so had thrown himself into his faith instead to find a way to make everyone around him as miserable as he was. His marriage was all but arranged and had done nothing to alleviate his dismal outlook on life, instead breeding resentment for what he saw as a drain on his finances.

Mrs. Lehazkin had dreams of being a musician but no drive to develop a musical talent, and so was banking on having a son to be the next Mozart. Her previous miscarriages had ostracized her from the community somewhat, leaving her alone to grow her obsessions.

Neither parent was violent, so to speak. The demons had drawn a line at the idea of anyone daring to raise a hand to their lord. But they were spiteful. Spurious. Selfish. And so caught up in their own woes that they hardly had a thought to spare for sparing a thought for anyone else.

If a certain snake had ever met them, he would’ve loved them. They were the sort of people who generated general misery and low level evil in others simply by having a word or two with them.

But HE never did meet them, and both Above and Below were determined to keep it that way. THOSE TWO were _not_ going to interfere with _this_ little nest egg. They even warded the pair against THEM, just to be safe.

In time, the antichrist was born. Duke Hatsur and the Archangel Michael escorted it _personally_ to the chamber where miscarriage number three was taking place.

To Michael’s mild surprise, the antichrist was a girl.

“Well, ‘s like Eve, innit?” Hatsur had grumbled. “_She_ listened to the snake bastard first, so this one might have more inclination to listen to _her_ father.”

Michael nodded, and pointedly did not think about what she and several other members of the angelic host would like to say to _that_.

The mother was so delighted to see a healthy, squirming baby beside her when she awoke that she did not question why the new nurse was so filthy, or why the doctor seemed so insistent she chose strange, antiquated names like Jezebel or Salome.

In the end, she was named Delilah.

Delilah grew up by turns scrutinized and ignored.

Her mother demanded she spend every spare moment on the very expensive harpsichord from the moment her fat little fingers could press down on the keys. Her father demanded she stop making that dratted racket and listen to his sermons on the sinful nature of man which invariably lead to sermons on the sinful nature of Delilah.

Her mother demanded to know why Delilah had stopped and informed her that Delilah would not be receiving dinner again until she had mastered the “German Dance in C, No. 1”. Her father demanded that Delilah sit down and listen respectfully while he was talking or she would be sent to bed with no dinner.

Her mother told her not to listen to an old coot’s self-important ramblings. Her father told her to stop listening to an old hag’s lies that she had any musical promise.

Her mother accused that Delilah did not love her.

Her father accused that Delilah did not respect him.

The argument that evolved from this always ended with both parents taking dinner in their separate rooms. Both had quite forgotten that there was a child who also needed feeding. 

Delilah learned where food was in the kitchen early on. Or rather, where food should be in the kitchen for a girl her size to reach it.

She learned to cook from reruns of cooking shows. She would assemble the ingredients just as the chefs on the old television set did, carefully mix, fold, beat, pound, stir, or whatever it was they told her to, put the mixture into the oven and pull out a fresh and perfectly crafted meal a mere moment later, a nice mirror to the finished result on television.

It never occurred to Delilah that she might have to put the oven on at a certain temperature, go out and buy ingredients she did not have, or wait for her meal to cook. After all, the cooks on television never did, so why should she?


End file.
